Six beers stabbed in wet sand—chilled daggers. A black ocean distantly breaks. Waves lick grit close to rented shoes. A wind warm, stirs tie—slack now, dancing about a throat. He sits, encircled. A wedding continues behind, indifferent. “Little Wing” floats on faint breeze.
She had made him watch.
So in sand, he sips deliberately, and remembers much too much.
On a nearby picnic table, two bridesmaids make out—fingers tangled in each other’s hair, gasping, thrashing. He tries not watching. He tries forgetting familiar sounds.
But it’s useless to try.
Five beers to go.